


give me your hand, and let us conquer our demons together

by ThatPawnbrokersShopAroundTheCorner



Series: Snapshots [8]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Red Dragon, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4828820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatPawnbrokersShopAroundTheCorner/pseuds/ThatPawnbrokersShopAroundTheCorner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They got married in a nice little chapel, not far from the beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me your hand, and let us conquer our demons together

**Author's Note:**

> Part 8 of the 'Snapshots' series: a collection/ corpus of connected to each other but not always chronologically ordered drabbles dealing with Hannibal and Will, their fall and what happened before, after and during it. Spoilers for 'The Wrath of the Lamb', episode 3x13. (This one is a repost.)

  


* * *

 

They got married in a nice little chapel, not far from the beach. It was a quiet affair, with only Walter and Molly's parents attending the ceremony. Will didn't invite anyone.

Right now, as he's seated on the bed in their hotel room, he resolves that he won't think of Hannibal, no matter what. He's put Florence, expensive designer suits and tales of destruction and violence behind him forever.

And yet, as he places his shoes next to the bed, he can't help but wonder what Hannibal would think of the interior design. He wonders if Hannibal would consider the wallpaper with the light pink roses tacky, and if he would spare Will a critical eye for choosing a suit that doesn't entirely fit him well.

Molly thought it was charming.

When he hears the bathroom door open, and the soft shift of silk against the carpet, he tells himself that this night is about about her, about them. No one else.

Will looks up and smiles at her. Molly smiles back. She looks beautiful tonight with her hair let down, falling in waves around her shoulders and the simple white dress hugging her curves in all the right places.

He knows she will feel soft underneath him, _warm_. She'll not only guide him, but love him, without any conditions or false promises.

Despite that, Will's thoughts morph into something else entirely, where softness is replaced by hard lines and calloused hands. Hands that touched him gently before destroying everything in a matter of minutes, before –

Molly sits down on the bed, shifting and shuffling until she's behind Will. He feels her breath ghosting against the nape of his neck.

He wonders if she'll reprimand him now, but Molly merely wraps her arms around his waist, placing her head on his shoulder.

“Will,” she says tenderly. “I know you're not with me here tonight – not entirely.”

“I'm sorry.” Will feels shame coil inside of him. Feels the familiar thoughts return to his mind: that this is wrong, and that he's doing her a disservice by marrying her. He shouldn't. She deserves better.

Molly laughs, half teasing, half sad. “I'm not blaming you.” She tightens her grip, buries her nose in his hair, and sighs. “It's not like I'm different.”

He feels just a little incredulous at that: Molly could never be like him. She's not a monster in the making.

“I'm also thinking of Walter's father tonight.” She laughs then, just a little brokenly, and Will finds himself reminded that as strong as Molly is, as much as kindness is her second nature, that her own scars are far from healed. “I can't help it, you know? I can't help thinking what we'd be doing now if he was still alive.”

Will doesn't blame her, but just thinks back to what she told him of Walter's father – it's always 'Walter's father', never his first name. Never that, because it would mean crossing a line that Molly is not wiling to cross. He places his hand over hers. “I don't want you to forget about him. I would never ask that of you.”

He knows that he could never belong to that life: of the states-trotting baseball wife who cheered on her husband's games, of the high school sweetheart who supported her man through thick and thin.

He doesn't want to.

Molly nestles even closer, and the laugh she gives him now is happy, relieved. “I don't want you to forget about Hannibal either. As much --” her tone turns grave, “ as this would be good for you, as much as I feel that his memory poisons you. I can't ask you to stop thinking about him.”

Yet again, Will feels guilt building up inside of him. Molly knows everything, and still he feels he should tell her that it's not over. It never will be. He turns to look at her, at this sweet woman who's won the part of him that Hannibal Lecter hasn't touched. “Molly I --”

“I want us to build a happy home together,” she says, shushing him, rubbing her nose against his in that loving manner that makes him feel giddy and light-headed. “I want us to have a house full of dogs. I want a room where we can listen to Merle Watson.” Her smile widens then, and she presses a kiss against the corner of Will's mouth. “I want us to feel safe and cherished there, so that we can both move on.”

Will wonders, briefly, if that's even possible. The scar Hannibal left on his heart runs deeper than a kitchen knife, isn't something that can be overcome through the barrier of a prison cell. But Molly looks so hopeful, so sweet, so _everything_ that he wants to indulge her. Just so she can smile a little more lightheartedly again. He swallows and then kisses her, whispering, “I would like that. I would like that very much.”

***

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